One portrait
by Random'shouse
Summary: Blaine was a painter with a dream that wouldn't let him go. Then it was no longer just a dream. Enter Kurt.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own glee or any of its characters. Enjoy.

The particular shade of blue he needed had been nearly impossible to reach. Too much green, then too little, too grey and not grey enough. He saw it so clearly in his head, yet the paintbrush refused to cooperate, but Blaine was nothing if not perseverant, and particularly skilled when properly motivated.

The apartment was completely dark, not necessary gloomy, but not pleasant either. The furniture, that normally inspired a particular homeliness, looked like props from a horror movie, skeletons of their day life existence. Certainly, they fit the current mood of their owner.

It felt like hours, the sun had fallen in the world outside of that bedroom, but Blaine wouldn´t notice until it was morning again. His whole world revolved around the mostly empty canvas and the face in his mind, burning away all sanity.

The eyes were the focal point, they were what drew him in the first time. The first dream, there were only eyes.

Somewhere in the distance Tulip was meowing, probably starving, it had been over day since Blaine had last left his studio.

The lashes were only a little bit easier, each individual lash, long and delicate. A soft chestnut shade, almost blond near the tips. The rest of his face would probably take him another day and night, but he was starting to feel dizzy and his pulse started to suffer. Putting the brush down was almost as painful as leaving his arm behind, but he couldn't risk ruining the painting now that the eyes were finally perfect.

Tulip was nearly murderous by the time Blaine finished climbing down the stairs. In fact he curled around Blaine´s legs with clear intent before the word food was used.

The black cat settled for climbing on the large mahogany table and making his displeasure known. Loudly and with claws.

Dinner for Tulip consisted on a small plate of tuna in his little golden dish, an unusual luxury but Blaine was feeling guilty for neglecting his only companion, plus he had forgotten to purchase kibble.

The eyes were as perfect as they would get, he decided, sadly nothing he could ever produce would match the perfection of that face that haunted him day and night. And that was saying something. At the age of 23 Blaine was one of the most sought after eccentricities of the artistic scenery, musician turned actor turned painter, guessing what would catch his fancy next was the critics' favourite game. Not that Blaine ever cared about his fame or followers.

Most of what he had done had been unintentionally aimed to anger his parents, a very late teenage rebellion coupled with a severe lack of purpose. At twenty he had been sitting through an extraordinarily boring lecture on American economy when he simply decided he could not waste another second of his life studying something he disliked in order to work at a place he hated, his father's company, doing something that would never satisfy him. Rather that storming out dramatically, he waited until the end of the class before calmly walking to his dorm. That afternoon, Blaine packed all of his belongings bought a plane ticket to NY and left.

His father had been furious, that was to be expected, luckily Cooper took it with humour and put him in touch with a friend. Before a week had gone by Blaine was settled in a small and dirty apartment in the worst side of the city and had a job as a backup singer in a relatively well known club. Most importantly, he finally felt like he could breath.

Blaine was not and had never been an unhappy person, his parents had paid attention to him, not a lot and not very often, but he couldn't claim he had been neglected. His coming out as gay had not been well received, yet it was not a tragic story either, his mother had cried and his father yelled, there was family therapy and family dinners and many failed attempts at reconnecting before they reached some kind of truce. Which had lasted until senior year.

Mr. Anderson, Andrew to his friends, owned a large pharmaceutical company, it took most of his time as CEO and public face; his wife was the head of the, rather large, team of lawyers so he had obviously expected Blaine and Cooper to take some interest in it. He had been disappointed.

First Cooper had taken off to LA to become a Hollywood star, it had yet to happen, however, he remained optimistic, plus having a pretty face never hurt during auditions. Still, Cooper had always been too much of a "free spirit", quotation marks included, so Mr. Anderson hadn't made a fuss, he had two sons so things could still work out. But Blaine, well he didn't have any crazy plans for his future, he claimed no desire to work for his father though he had no alternative option. After many arguments, he was presented with alternatives, first he could get a job which was unlikely without qualifications, he could go to Princeton, where he had been accepted and mayor in business or finally, he could come up with a plan of his own. Additionally, he would only get monetary support if he took option two. So Blaine shipped himself to Princeton.

He lasted two years.

Blaine would be the first to admit, he had no reason to be resentful which he wasn't, not really, and perhaps he should have done something for himself two years before, when his father gave him a chance rather than two years and several thousands of dollars later.

He had eventually returned the money, after he had been discovered one night in the bar and his first tour had finished, quite successfully according to his manager. Andrew Anderson had never quite forgiven him, Sarah Anderson called him every Christmas and for every birthday, Cooper Anderson simply thought he was the biggest troll the family had ever spawned. Blaine simply smiled at the cameras.

Five years and three professions went by and Blaine felt he was finally close to finding whatever it was he needed. And then he dreamed of the face.

Now he was almost sure, his purpose included that face, at least to some extent. His manager, some Sebastian Smythe, the only one who had lasted more than two months around the spastic artist, was happy to ignore Blaine's episode, so long he had something to show to the public afterwards. Admittedly, he had been less understanding this time, when Blaine had called him at two in the morning to prattle about something wonderful he kind of remember from a dream/hallucination. Still, Blaine was worth millions, so Sebastian managed to only curse once before hanging up and rolling back to sleep. The following morning he showed up at bright and early with two business plans ready and a lot of coffee.

"I don´t know his name." Blaine confessed almost embarrassed between bites of blueberry muffin.

"I don't care about his name, Blaine. Is it going to be a good painting?" Sebastian drawled from his position on the large neon pink couch.

"It will be the best thing I'll ever do." Sebastian sighed, yes his client was not really right in the head, but his patience and a bit of prodding he would get something profitable out of him.

"Fine, then paint it" And Blaine did.

For days, it was the only thing he did. The portrait had really come around after the eyes were done. So blue and green and grey, how could such a shade exist? The nose, so round and fairy tale like. The skin, no brush would ever do it justice. Yes, it was the best thing he could ever do. And it wasn't enough.

The second portrait was done within a day. While the first one was like a first glimpse, quite ethereal and only a little unreal with a faraway look, like the subject had no mundane concerns surrounded by a meaningless library (Blaine had painted the background simply because it was so dark and gloom that the Face glowed that much more). The second painting was about the details, about the tiny freckles, about each individual hair. Still otherworldly, but closer, no longer a first contact. He felt like he was getting to know the Face.

The third painting included hands, long and elegant fingers curled around a pencil. Pale and silky, just like the Face. Blaine measured his own hand against it and found himself so lacking…

Sebastian was in the kitchen, Blaine couldn't remember letting him in. No, he wasn't finished yet. Yes, he would be ready for the meeting with the gallery director. Fine Sebastian, you can help me get dressed. Goodbye Sebastian.

The Face had a body; it didn't fit in the frame so Blaine had to paint it on a wall, right on the landing of the stairs. He had to move an old mirror he had hanged there when he'd first moved but it was the only surface he could think of. The Face was taller than him, just a few inches, he found that information exciting.

Two weeks after he had first dreamed of him, Blaine started talking to the Face. He was on his way to feed Tulip while being cursed in cat language when he heard it.

"You are lucky that cat hasn't abandoned you yet. It's weird though, I thought they went wherever the food was." The Face by the kitchen entrance, his newest addition, was wearing a smirk deliciously mocking and the voice, oh that voice. Blaine couldn't have been imaging it, his brain could not come up with such a wonderful sound. Very high, but sweet it fit the Face very well.

"Tulip happens to be a very loyal cat. And I am usually a more responsible owner." Blaine was almost done opening the tuna can, one the reasons Tulip hadn't ditched him yet when he realised what had happened.

"You can hear me?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

For five days Blaine painted and drew the Face all over the house, in napkins and magazines and every canvass that was still unused.

"You are a writer right?"

"Why would you assume that?" The Face was sitting on a log, surrounded by a blue green forest. It matched his eyes.

"Well," Blaine spoke from his position on the bed, he was getting ready to sleep, but that question had been haunting him, "I've seen you hold pens and pencils many times. You have one when you are near the stairs, and you have a pencil and a notebook on the living room."

"Yes, I suppose I'm a writer." He didn't move from his log, his face was aimed at Blaine's bed, but if you looked closely you could see that those blue eyes were looking out of the window completely uninterested by whatever occupied Blaine's bedroom. "What else do you know about me?" he sounded only mildly curious.

"You were born in a small town, it's why you like open spaces." Blaine got thirsty, there was soda in the kitchen he remembered. "Am I right?"

"Maybe." The Face that was caught mid dance in the main hallway was always the most mysterious and playful one, only the profile visible and one arm extended, the hand, so bright against the wall was the centre of attention.

"You love your family, and you miss them." Blaine stood in front of the Face by the stairs "did I get it right?"

It looked sorrowful and distant. "I miss them all of the time."

"You'll get fat if you only drink that".

"You are always so mean" Blaine complained playfully exciting the kitchen, he gave the mocking Face a little peck on the lips.

Sebastian refused to buy supplies for Blaine, something about being the middle of the night again and having other clients.

That day was the first time Blaine set foot out of his house in over three weeks. In addition to the art supplies he needed food for himself and for Tulip, kibble was a must, after nothing but tuna Blaine had woken to cat puke on his kitchen, couch and piano bench.

One canvass took all of the back seat of the car, the new brushes rested on the trunk. His house was on the outskirts of the city, a large and quiet area for a very selective neighbourhood. Quite different from his first apartment on the city.

The market was unusually crowded and Blaine was struggling under the weight of a bag of cat food and apples. Not shockingly he tripped over his right foot.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Blaine's breath caught in his throat, the Face was there just as musical and waiflike as his paintings. And disturbingly three dimensional.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello, here's the second chapter, only one to go before the end. Feel free to tell me what you think!**

**The pencil**

Blaine was standing in front of the Face, those eyes, the very thing that had originally drawn him to the dream were even more perfect than they were on his portraits. The skin, he had imagined it so soft and warm and pliant yet it looked even more perfect. If only he could touch it. The detail that really convinced, what made him realise he was seeing the real Face though, was the voice. The same voice that sang to him, that mocked him, that laughed with him. He was there, in the middle of the market, among the vegetables as if he was not a part of Blaine's fantasies.

The Face was staring, maybe because Blaine was staring up at him from the floor, unmoving, for a suspiciously long period of time. He jumped quite awkwardly to his feet.

"Yeah, no, I mean. I'm fine, thanks." The Face quirked an elegant eyebrow. "I'm Blaine!" not his smoothest moment but he was meeting the man of his dreams, literally, so excuse him for that. At the very least he remembered to brush his pants after the fall.

"Hello, Blaine." Ah he even said his name the same, so beautifully enunciated. "Kurt" Now if he could just extend his hand, he would finally be able to touch that smooth skin. Yes! There was a hand. And no brush stroke would ever do it justice. Still, Blaine was so ecstatic at that moment that he couldn't even feel the failure.

"Hi, Kurt." God his name was like a purr, Kurt, Kuurrt. He would never get tired of it. "Sorry, I'm not usually this clumsy." The Face, Kurt, was looking amusedly at him, and apparently he wanted his hand back, Blaine's sadness at having to let go knew no end.

"Yes, we all have our moments. Well, I should…" and gestured vaguely at his half full shopping bag. No, he couldn't just leave like that.

"Yes, but wait, I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for… meat," Blaine would have slapped himself. "I mean steaks, yes, stakes. I don't know the store, could you tell me where to find it?" He never had such difficulties when acting, was never so nervous during recitals, then again he had never been around Kuurrt before.

His living portrait looked unconvinced, but agreed nonetheless, a soft OK that sounded ridiculously musical for such a short word. He didn't speak again; simply lead Blaine to the right place, looking almost as dazed as Blaine felt. Maybe Blaine had made an even bigger fool of himself than he had thought.

He refused to accept it. The situation was still salvageable, first he had to buy the steaks he wouldn't like, Tulip would eat them at least, and then he could find a clever way to make the moment last for ever. Simple.

"So, thank you so much for this. I really needed help." Too creepy Blaine, be more casual, "I was wondering if you'd like to have something to drink, my house is" Covered with you face, "being fumigated, but we can go to a café. If you'd like."

There was a long, mildly awkward pause before Kurt agreed.

Blaine replayed the event in his head yet could not believe it, he sang to himself in joy, the Face was real and even more perfect than he'd imagined him. He was back at his house, hurriedly taking down the portraits he'd hanged over the previous days. The one on his bedroom wall ended up in the basement wrapped and protected in old sheets; the one from the hallway, where the Face, Kurt, was dancing to some unknown music ended up in the attic, along with the first painting. Leaving them there felt like ripping a piece of himself, but he had to do it, he told himself. For Kurt.

The mirror went back to his place by the stairs, perfectly covering the most melancholic image of the Face, and during a very desperate and uncreative flash he hanged one of his curtains over the Mocking Face. He could always dismiss it as artistic quirkiness.

Resting on the, freshly cleaned, neon pink couch Tulip observed his master's moments of lunacy as he ran around the house relocating chairs, tables, vases and just about everything that was moveable. The piano was too heavy, still Blaine gave it a good try before declaring defeat. The attic became crowded with the things Blaine declared inappropriate or simply too much to be on display.

The kitchen was properly stocked for the first time in months, fresh fruit and vegetables, spices and bread. Milk and yoghurt, a bottle of the finest wine he could manage and some Coke, just in case. And the steaks he had bought, like an afterthought.

Several hours later his house was ready for Kurt's first visit.

After the met in the market, they had ended up at a small café, one that Blaine had never visited but which was, apparently, Kurt's second home. Because Kurt lived nearby and couldn't really concentrate at home, not to mention that he loved coffee. When Blaine asked what was it that Kurt did and required concentration, he realised there a greater power playing with their lives. Kurt, Hummel as he found out between sips of coffee, was a fiction writer.

The countertenor, and here laid the problem because while his voice, so dreamlike, was one of the things Blaine loved most about his Face, it was also the very thing Kurt had learned to hate.

Blaine had always suffered from a severe lack of direction in his life, a circumstance that still affected him even if he had tried, and managed to succeed in several different fields while remaining relatively apathetic. In contrast, Kurt had known what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it since he was about ten years old, he had led his life with singleminded determination.

It was his voice that determined a lot of his life, his high school years for starters and his choice of college. Mostly it insured him a long series of bad experiences, constant bullying, a short list of acquaintances and even shorter list of friends. Regardless he had remained strong, hoping that in the end things would work out, because that what happened if you worked hard, right?

Well, it didn't. he managed to get a spot in his chosen college, completed three years of musical theatre education and got absolutely nowhere. Though Kurt was willing to take chances to get where he wanted to be, nobody else wanted that risk. And his voice, that quality that made him unique also eliminated his work possibilities. After twenty years of constant struggle he did something he had never considered before, Kurt Hummel gave up.

And in his giving up he found a different career path, not one he had ever considered, but one that shockingly suited him. At the age of twenty, Kurt had dropped out of NYADA, enrolled in NYU and began writing what would become his first book.

Not an instant success, nonetheless it did manage to pave the road for his next novel. A dark and gloomy tale that captured his feelings about his life in general and his previous dream's demise in particular in 150 pages. That one made it, and Kurt got his round of applause at last even if late at night during his book signing tour he still sang to himself in between sips of wine.

The doorbell rang and Blaine, having been waiting just behind it, had to count to ten before opening, so as to not look like the creepy guy Kurt must believe him to be. It was not easy.

"Hey, I'm glad you came. Come in" They wandered into the living room, Kurt observing the house with mild curiosity and only one raised eyebrow when he saw the main window. One curtain hanging from its place, the other covering some random patch of wall.

"Lovely place, interesting décor." Tulip approached the stranger in his house and proceeded to cover his light grey jeans in black fur. "Your cat is lovely too." Blaine took Tulip in his arms and with as much subtlety as he could manage, locked him in the coat closet. Five steps away and he could already hear his house mate's displeasure.

"Yeah, so sorry about that. He is usually well behaved." After the blatant lie, he started setting two cups for tea, and only after the bags were in the cup did he remember to ask. "Would you like something to drink?"

An amused sigh and Kurt was in the kitchen helping him prepare the beverages, things were surprisingly smooth after that.

"So Blaine, what is it that you do?" The large house and ridiculously expensive furniture couldn't pay for themselves.

"I, many things really. I sang for a while, particularly popular among teenage girls and their mothers." He let out a little laugh, he had done many things his very few years, but it all seemed meaningless. On the other hand he felt a bit guilty, the Face had always sounded a little sad, and after talking to Kurt the previous day, he understood why. "I also acted, just TV shows, I never did movies and now I paint. There's an exhibit running in the city, I go every Friday to see the people. That's about it."

Kurt was staring at him wide eyed, "It's, um, it's quite a lot really. I feel like I should have heard of you before now."

"Well, like I said, my audience were usually young girls, and not many people visit galleries nowadays." Besides, and this he would not say, you are one of my paintings; you are my Face even if you don't know it yet. "I'm not really that famous, I mean, I hadn't heard of you either."

Although probably nobody had heard of him before, because Blaine was not stupid, the same face, same eyes, same backstory and profession. Kurt was his, his Face had finally come to him, after speaking to him from his walls for so long. The Face was finally with him. Hopefully to stay for good.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Hi! The story was meant to be split into three parts "The Portrait", "The Pencil" and "The Madness", however, this chapter got long so I decided to split it in two. Here is the first part of the third and last instalment, fell free to comment on the story! I'll also leave you my Tumblr, in case you wish to check it: **andthenthepinkocean . tumblr . com (Just remove the spaces)

**The Madness**

Kurt hadn´t stayed for long that day, but he'd agreed to visit him again. And he had, several times a week. They had tea or coffee depending on the mood, Blaine made silly jokes and Kurt laughed, whether out of amusement or politeness it was hard to tell, given how much he enjoyed the sound of Kurt's laughter Blaine didn't care about the reason as long as he could continue to listen to it. Every day that went by helped them feel like they really did belong together. So Blaine kept buying cakes and pastries, wine and sodas, and Kurt kept visiting. At first it was mostly out of curiosity, Blaine had seemed so odd yet so entrancing and adorable. The more he got to know him and his ridiculously colourful past the more he realised something, running into him at the supermarket had not been a coincidence.

Blaine for his part, was simply ecstatic about the arrangement and it showed, granted it was not through new works or anything that could be considered productive which pissed Sebastian to no end, but there was a certain dance to his walk that had not been there before, not even after his first live performance or his first TV release. It was a new exhilarating feeling, Blaine couldn't have enough of it.

Speaking of Sebastian, he had shown up at the house to have a serious talk that had left them both profoundly disappointed in the other. It happened one afternoon, with an unannounced visit, as was the norm with his manager.

"Oh my God, Sebastian, you are never going to believe it! I met him! Kurt is the Face" was Blaine's only hello that day.

The taller man was not impressed. "Three weeks Blaine! I thought I was going to find a rotting corpse, that is if your stupid cat didn't eat you first" Tulip sauntered out of the room and up the stairs, cat version of a diva storm off. "There is an exhibit booked in two days, you are supposed to show yourself at the galleria, and where the hell is that new portrait you were talking about?! If you are going to leave me hanging for so long you'd better have something to show for it."

Sebastian had wandered around the house during his tirade, clearly expecting to find some amazing paintings that just weren't there, tripping over the relocated furniture in his haste.

"I'm sorry Sebastian but I found him, or he found me. Kurt was here, he is real!"

"Okay, I know you think you are making sense, but you are really not, so start again. Who is Kurt?" Blaine was suddenly standing just inches away from Sebastian, dreamy expression firmly fixed to his face, eyes sparkling away, maybe a little on the insane side.

"He is the one I was telling you about, the Face from my dreams. I was shopping and then I fell and he helped me up. It's really him!"

"So you found someone who looks like the man you dreamed. Blaine, he is probably one of your neighbours or someone you saw before but just don't remember." Looking tiredly at the couch, he wondered if it was safe to sit down or he would get fur on his precious Armani. Talking to Blaine usually required sitting down, or at least a wall to lean on.

"No, no , no. It's him. We spoke and he sounds exactly like my portrait. Not to mention that he has the same backstory, both form a small town, both were unhappy there and felt unappreciated. Then came to New York looking for something better and they both became writers! They are the same person." He was too excited to see the way in which Sebastian was staring at him, if at first the manager had been a bit amused and a lot annoyed, now he simply looked concerned. "Kurt is…"

"Stop. What do you mean they both sound the same?"

"It's a very particular tone of voice. I could recognise it anywhere so when I heard him in the market I knew it was him." The sometimes painter looked so proud that Sebastian almost wanted to let it go. Almost.

"Yes, but you said both. You heard Kurt speak so that's one, who is the other person?"

"Um, well," Blaine tended to live in his head a lot, ever since he was a child, his parents, teachers and sometimes even friends had complained about the same thing still, he managed to realise that though the story made perfect sense to him, Sebastian or anyone else, would probably find it worrisome. So he creatively rewrote some of the details. "I spent a lot of time working on those paintings, it gave me time to think about him, what he would be like, his background, likes and dislikes, you know…when you see someone on the street and try to guess stuff about them. And, then there is the voice, I pictured it too." Yes, that sounded realistic enough. And yet, given Sebastian's expression, he would probably disagree.

"Okay, we'll pretend I believe that. You are trying to tell me that the Kurt you met is the same Kurt you painted and that you, somehow, knew everything about him before meeting him?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but it's not like that, I didn't guess Kurt's story. I think… try to listen to me because I know how it sounds… I think that he is my painting come to life." Blaine had reached this conclusion after speaking to Kurt, because really? How could it be a coincidence? Kurt was everything Blaine had ever dreamed of, he looked, sounded and acted like his paintings. He was this perfectly complex individual that embodied all of the aspects of each of his portraits. So really, there was no other logical explanation for it.

The living room, where Sebastian's exploration had led them, looked as though frozen in time, not even the large clock that hanged from the wall moved, it had broken months before but was a fine antique so Blaine kept it as decoration, either that or he simple hadn't realised it was not working. It was several uncounted seconds before Sebastian moved or spoke again. He gently took Blaine's chin and tilted his head slightly sideways before moving his own head until they were almost nose to nose. Blaine allowed it simply out of a deep need to not waste energy unless it was necessary and the fact that he had never noticed exactly how green Sebastian's eyes were. Lovely shade, not as devastatingly beautiful as Kurt's but interesting in their own right.

"I need you to listen to me, since this is apparently not a drug induced rant…listen closely. People don't magically appear. Kurt, if there even is a Kurt, was a person long before you met him, and this…I don't know how to explain it, but I do know that you are confused…"

"Sebastian…"

"No Blaine! Listen to me!" But Blaine was trying to remove Sebastian's hand from around him, and at what point had they begun struggling?

"No, no! You don't know! Kurt is real, and he is mine!" They grappled uselessly for a few moments, both demonstrating their lack of interest or knowledge in the act of fighting. Finally, he managed to elbow Sebastian under the chin hard enough for him to let go. "Kurt is real! I spoke to him, he comes and visits me, we have tea and he told all about his life. He is real! He is my Kurt."

Sebastian simply straightened himself, one hand holding his chin carefully and he rotated his jaw, anger clear in his eyes. "Fine! Fine."

And he was gone.

For the first time in years, Blaine cried himself to sleep.

"Did something happen? You look awful." Two mugs of coffee rested on the table, Blaine had decided to forgo the tea bags, hoping that a doss of caffeine could help him wake up a little, it had been one of the worst nights of his life and not because he cared a lot about what Sebastian thought, even so was still saddening to fight with one of his only friends.

"Rough night. Nothing serious, how are you? We didn't speak yesterday." His voice was rough from his not so silent crying, he could only hope that Kurt assume he had the flu. His blue eyed man looked upset and only a little guilty, as if he'd know Blaine's sadness was in some way related to him, even so, there were no comments made. They were ready for a change of subject.

"I know, I'm sorry. You know how I told you about the heating in my house?" Two second long pause so that Blaine could nod his head. "Well, it turns out there is a problem with the central so it´s going to take longer to fix. I spent all day yesterday trying to find someone willing to work on a weekend. So far I've had no luck."

It must have been dreadful since Kurt was breaking his only-two-slices of cake rule. Blaine really felt for him. Immediately afterwards he had what he thought was the best idea of all times.

"Why don't you stay here for a while?" He tried really hard not to face palm at himself, "I mean, it must be uncomfortable…and my house it's so big! You can take one of the extra rooms until your problem is fixed. It is the middle of winter; we don't want you to freeze."

So Kurt stayed.

Living together proved to be quite simple and enlightening. Neither had given much thought to the logistics of the process, which was a good decision as they both found each other's presence comforting and unobtrusive. Not to mention that it led to wonderful discoveries about the other, such as the fact that Kurt sang during the mornings.

After hearing him speak, and having listened to the description of failed Broadway dreams he had assumed that Kurt had some kind of musical skill, but neither Kurt nor the Face had ever sang to him, so the first time he heard it, quite by accident after getting out of the shower, he had to sit down, right where he had been standing, in the middle of the hallway, like some animated character suddenly blown away by the beauty that was his partner. There was a lot power to what had at first seemed a very soft and gentle voice, so very delicate yet entrancing that Blaine felt blasphemous for ever calling himself a singer.

Apparently singing was not meant to be a public activity for Kurt as he had stopped the second he'd seen Blaine.

"Please don't"

"Don't what?"

"Keep going." Kurt did.

By the time the song had finished, Blaine was only mildly surprised to realise he was crying. Never before had he been driven to tears by a song, then again it was only fitting, they matched perfectly the tears coming down Kurt's cheek.

His house guest seemed perfectly content and unwilling to leave. The weekend had turned into a week, then two and finally a month. Neither complained about the extended stay. Blaine was very careful to keep his paintings hidden, thought Kurt never mentioned the attic, the weirdly located mirror or the curtain that hanged out of place. They had reached some kind of routine, Kurt would cook breakfast, usually pancakes, sometimes eggs, only once toast. Lunch was spent outside, whether at a dinner or a nice picnic at the park, conveniently located just two blocks away.

Kurt sang every day, less shy than he had seemed that first day, Blaine teared up and didn't paint again, afraid of the result it might have on his Kurt.

He was already perfect.

Two months into their no longer new living arrangements, Kurt started acting differently, small things that Blaine only noticed because he paid extreme attention to everything Kurt did or said. It was subtle at first and then not so much.

He started sleeping in late and arguing with his publicist on the phone. Blaine had been upset to hear Kurt talking to some Adam guy once, but he was not mentioned again after his identity was explained and whatever conversations they had afterwards was in the confines of Kurt's room, where Blaine would technically not hear but in reality could still managed to eavesdrop if he stood close enough to the door. While the voice was very muffled since the door was quite old and solid, as was everything in the house, he got the gist, Kurt was missing his deadlines with his editorial.

Now, Blaine had never been particularly interested in obeying deadlines or schedules, he paid Sebastian a ridiculous amount of money to manage those things for him, which didn't mean that he was unaware of the consequences of failing to fulfil the clauses of a contract. He was worried.


	4. Chapter 4

In a moment of weakness Blaine picks up a pen and starts sketching. He manages to stop himself before Kurt's face is fully outlined. The notebook opened, being caressed by Kurt's fingers. Blaine crumples the paper with a sudden, almost desperate motion.

Kurt was a person, even if he had started as a figment in Blaine's brain, he was a person now, with feelings and autonomy, how could Blaine consider trying to change him? Or worse, what if he already had?

Kurt wasn´t writing, he wasn't doing much of anything really. He would cook, play with Tulip and stare at Blaine from the distance, being very careful not actually engage in conversation. But he wasn´t going out, he hadn't gone to check his house, not once in almost three months, he wasn´t using his phone except for talking to Adam, and even then it was done reluctantly. Surprisingly, Kurt was the first one to crack.

"Blaine, can we talk for a moment?" The soft voice interrupted Blaine's musings and his contemplative pose sitting by the window was momentarily broken. There stood the object of his daydreams, holding a silver tray, it was, apparently, tea time.

"Of course" Blaine had chosen the music room for his meditation, which was really only the room where he stored his now seldom used instruments; it had a small coffee table, so it would be a perfect setting for what promised to be a very serious discussion.

"So, I suppose we need to talk." And didn't it feel awfully like a break up line? " I noticed that you are not, comfortable, I guess. Sorry, I rehearsed this in my head and I still don't know how to say it. What I mean is, that if you need me to leave or…"

"No! I don't want you to leave, why would you think that? I'm not uncomfortable I… I thought you were." They could only sit and face each other, completely unsure as to how they could continue the conversation. Again, Kurt took the first step.

"Fine," sigh, "I'm worried about you, you've told me so much about your life, so many things that you've done and still wanted to do, but I don't see you do much of anything. You spoke of Sebastian only once, and you mentioned a gallery opening coming up, yet you didn't go. I admit, I haven't known you for long, though it feels as though we've known each other out whole lives, I guess I'm afraid that my presence here is upsetting you and your routine. " Blaine was speechless, not only had Kurt managed to phrase everything he wanted to say but he had even noticed something about Blaine that he himself had not seen before. Because, while he was concerned about Kurt's lack of activities, he wasn't doing much better. Whatever it was that had always driven him, made him look for something else, be constantly in motion was gone.

He was sure it was due to Kurt, not in a negative way. He had surely spent his whole life looking for something, that something could only be Kurt. So much that he had created him, how could he explain that? How could he say that he didn´t want to go out in fear that Kurt might not be there when he returned? More importantly, how could he explain to anyone that he wouldn't paint because he was terrified of what it would do to Kurt if he changed him in the slightest? It's the only reason he hadn't wanted to draw Kurt smiling, writing or doing anything. He was his own person now and was supposed to do things out of his own free will.

Except that he wasn't. And Blaine had no way of explaining it.

"I made you."

"What?"

"I made you. I painted you." Maybe the truth… "You came to me in my dreams, and I started to paint you. Then, you spoke to me, all of you, I painted many. You spoke and you sang, and you told me about your life. I loved you, I love you, so much. So, so much, that one day I bumped into you, in the market, and you were real. You are my painting, and you are real." And I love you. The second he was finished talking he covered his face with his palms and cried, tears of happiness at his miracles and tears of sorrow at how it was all falling to pieces around him. Kurt dropped his tea cup, it crashed dramatically and spilled tea all over the pale rug. Blaine found himself wrapped in a hug, he felt something wet hit his hands and realised that Kurt was crying too.

"I'm sorry Blaine, so sorry, so sorry. I never meant for this. I'm sorry."

"Why would you be sorry?" that's what Blaine said even if it wasn't very clear, he really needed a handkerchief or a tissue, he felt particularly undignified.

"Because it's my fault, because… wait for me, just one moment." He practically ran from the room and up the stairs, to his room. Blaine barely controlled his tears and sobs, hoping that Kurt would actually come back and not just bolt down the stairs and out of his life for ever.

"Read this." Clearly Kurt was staying.

"What is it?"

"Just read it."

It was a manuscript, two hundred pages or so, written on both sides in Kurt's elegant calligraphy. The project he had been working on the painting, the one Adam demanded. The first page was empty, waiting for a title, and the last page; Blaine had always started with the last paragraph of every book he read; was unfinished, the writing had ended mid word.

When it became clear that Kurt wasn't going to speak another word he started to read.

"_The particular shade of blue he needed had been nearly impossible to reach. Too much green, then too little, too grey and not grey enough."_

And it continued, it flashbacked to Blaine's childhood, to Dalton, to Cooper. To his days as jack of all trades. To meeting Kurt. "What?" it was a broken whisper, a void in his stomach trying to escape his body. He felt dizzy.

"You didn't make me Blaine. I made you."


End file.
